


soleil

by altissimozucca



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, like really, max pining after charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 02:57:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21228653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altissimozucca/pseuds/altissimozucca
Summary: The first time Max started noticing Charles in a different light was at the end of the 2018 season, on a Thursday in Texas when they had to fulfil their media duties and press conferences and everything else that bored the Dutchman to death.It was early in the day, the circus had arrived to the USA and Max was walking through the paddock with his hands tucked in his Red Bull jacket’s pockets; there weren’t many fans around yet, so he was able to get around fairly easy, despite not having any of the staff with him.That’s when he noticed Charles, looking lost and confused and tired, a small yawn escaping hisbeautifullips –Max, get a hold of yourself– and the sight made Max swoon a little –seriously, you’re not thirteen anymore, get a grip.





	soleil

** IT HAD STARTED **back in 2018, with a pair of puppy-like eyes and a soft smile reminiscent of the calm before the storm.

Max never believed himself to be a good person, not really; he had spent a lot of time in his life doing stupid, reckless things and saying words before he thought about them thoroughly. He was hot-headed, immature and an overall menace – that’s what he’d been told, at least.

He lived 20-or-so years of his life with that in mind, the vision of himself created by the regret of acting before thinking. He couldn’t help himself, though, as his tongue seemed to work faster than his brain and often would he say things he did not mean in the heat of the moment.

_You get that from your father_, his mother would often say. _Try and control yourself, Maxy, because you don’t want to end up like him._

So, he tried; he tried becoming more mature, calmer and more calculated and just _think_ before acting. There were times when he succeeded and those times felt as good as a place on the podium, if not better, because he knew he was making his mother proud.

Then he met Charles. Charles, with a pair of those soft, puppy eyes that screamed innocence and that soft, friendly smile that he’d shoot in Max’s direction when he saw him as a way of greeting and Max wanted to do nothing more than just smash Charles’ head in.

With his mouth, preferably.

Of course, they have met before and they talked and had their little rivalries, but Max hadn’t really seen Charles up-close since their teenage years back in karting and seeing how good puberty did the Monègasque made Max feel uneasy.

He remembered Charles with his long, 2009 hair that was so unlike Max’s short, always carefully done; he remembered the incident, when Charles ran Max off the track and didn’t even apologize; he remembered Charles’ stupid, French accent that seemed more prominent in those days than it was now.

Max tried to think of something, anything, that might have been the cause of the development of his crush on Charles, but came blank, and that scared him. He wasn’t ready to admit that he had a crush, _on a boy_ \- but not on any boy, on Charles Leclerc, the green and unexperienced Sauber driver who would smile at Max whenever he noticed the Dutch in the paddock.

The first time Max started noticing Charles in a different light was at the end of the 2018 season, on a Thursday in Texas when they had to fulfil their media duties and press conferences and everything else that bored the Dutchman to death.

It was early in the day, the circus had arrived to the USA and Max was walking through the paddock with his hands tucked in his Red Bull jacket’s pockets; there weren’t many fans around yet, so he was able to get around fairly easy, despite not having any of the staff with him.

That’s when he noticed Charles, looking lost and confused and tired, a small yawn escaping his _beautiful _lips – _Max, get a hold of yourself _– and the sight made Max swoon a little – _seriously, you’re not thirteen anymore, get a grip._

Charles, of course, saw him and shot him _that_ smile. He waved back lazily, trying to calm his train of thoughts at the sight of the Monègasque, who looked half-dead on his feet; _seriously, he looks like he’ll fall over any second._

Max debated his possibilities before walking up to Charles, just in time to catch him from tripping over nothing. He caught his shoulder, steadying him, “Easy, easy.” Charles mumbled out a thanks, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

He reminded Max of a kitten.

“Jesus, Charles, you look dead,” the Dutch noted, receiving a shrug in return.

“Couldn’t sleep,” came the reply, followed by another yawn. Charles apologized, “It’s too hot outside for me to sleep.”

Max nodded, faking understanding; in truth, he could sleep like the dead, no matter the weather outside or inside. Living everywhere but at home taught him that, followed by the time-zone changes and rare free time in his daily schedule.

Also, it was the beginning of May and it wasn’t that hot outside, barely even warm during the day, but he wasn’t going to say anything.

If it were anybody else, Max would’ve just cut the conversation short then and there; instead, the Dutchman looked at the Sauber driver and felt pity wash over him in waves. He grabbed Charles’ upper arm. “Come on, let’s get you some coffee.”

Charles only groaned in response but followed his grid-mate to the nearest coffee-selling place; they could’ve gotten it for free in their motorhomes, but both knew that together they were only able to go to the public places because of secrecy or something like that.

Even though Max wasn’t a big fan of coffee, he got a cup for himself, too. The Styrofoam cups were scalding hot in his hands, but he wasn’t going to let the Monègasque carry his in his drowsy state.

He motioned for Charles to follow him and they found themselves at a silent, peaceful corner of the paddock. Both of them sat on the ground, backs against the wall and the Dutchman finally let the brunet have his coffee. Fishing the packs of sugar from his pocket, he offered them to Charles, who declined.

“I get sick from sweet coffee,” the Monègasque explained, shrugging. Max nodded, opening two packs and dumping them in his, ignoring the disgusted look on his company’s face. They were silent for a moment, Charles inhaling the scent of the beverage with a content look on his face. “Thanks,” he said to Max, _smiling that same God-forsaken smile._

“No problem,” the Dutchman replied quietly, sipping his drink slowly to not burn himself; Charles, on the other hand, downed it like it was his last and then hissed at the scalding feeling burning his throat. Max couldn’t help but chuckle.

That was the first time they were alone, just enjoying each other’s company; they both found that they quite liked it. They didn’t talk much, just small talk every now and then, something about the races, tracks and how they were both looking forward to the race.

Max was the first to leave, mumbling out something about having things to get to; he didn’t want to, really, but the enjoyment he got from being in Charles’ presence was becoming too much too quick. _It’s better to cut this short,_ the Dutch thought, looking at the now-chipper Monègasque talk about nice the weather was.

They didn’t talk much after that, greeting each other in passing and exchanging some words here and there; the clenching feeling in his gut that he got whenever Charles smiled at him seemed to dwindle and the world was back in its axis again.

Charles got announced as a Ferrari driver and Max congratulated him and that was the longest conversation they had had since Texas. The Dutchman tried to ignore his disappointment, blaming the lack of sleep.

Coincidentally, they found themselves on the same plane back to Monaco after Abu Dhabi; Charles seemed to crash as soon as he got in his seat, exhaustion taking over him. Max sat a bit further away, his headphones plugged into his phone playing music.

Other passengers all either talked to one another or slept, leaving the young Dutchman to himself.

He was messing around on his phone, playing some offline game he downloaded to pass his time when he saw a figure sitting across from him. His blue eyes met the green ones of the Monègasque. Max took off his headphones, greeting the other.

“What’s up?” he asked. There were still about five hours of the flight to Nice, so Max was pleasantly surprised to see Charles up since he fell asleep a minute after boarding the plane.

The Monègasque shrugged, “I’m bored, and the others aren’t that good company.”

“I’m flattered.” Max’s eyes moved from Charles to other familiar faces, “I thought you’d be with Pierre.”

“He’s asleep.”

There was a silence over them as Charles moved to sit next to Max, reminding the other of some child looking for attention. Max quirked his eyebrow up.

“What are you playing?” Charles asked, genuine curiosity lacing his thick-accented voice. Max moved his screen so that Charles could see _Geometry Dash_ open, the little, colourful cube hitting the first spike continuously. “Oh, I used to play that.”

Max shrugged, again. “It’s alright to pass the time. I’ve finished the first two levels; this is the third.” He tapped the screen, but only got to the nearest ditch, making him let out a groan and a sigh. “I give up.”

Charles looked at him in surprise, knowing how competitive the Red Bull driver usually was. Max noticed the look and stared him down in a _what do you want_ way; Charles shook his head, pursing his lip.

The little action caught Max’s attention and he gulped inwardly, cursing himself for looking at the Monègasque. If Charles noticed, he didn’t say anything about it and opened the topic of videogames with Max.

The Dutchman happily talked to Charles, explaining different bits and pieces of games and gaming equipment he has. He tried to ignore the fluttering in his stomach at the sight of Charles’ smile as he listened, the gnawing feeling of a developing crush burning like acid in his mind.

_I can do this. God, Max Emilian Verstappen, pull yourself together,_ he scolded himself mentally, but one look at the other boy had him throwing all his senses down the drain.

He hadn’t seen Charles at all during the winter break, which was funny because they lived in the same city. Max was usually in his flat, playing FIFA or watching something and only went out to run; there was also the period of time he spent in Hasselt, visiting his mother.

There were also some Red Bull obligations he had to fulfil, though those took up a smaller portion.

Truth be told, the Dutchman hadn’t even been thinking about Charles until he saw the Monègasque at the Monaco pier one evening while he was out running on that route. The younger of the two seemed deep in thought, staring at the deep waters and pursing his lips every so often.

Max didn’t even notice that he was watching Charles until his eyes met the pair of greens from across the pier. Their owner shot him his signature smile, though Max noticed that it wasn’t as real as it usually was.

He made his way over, sitting next to Charles and joining him in staring into nothing. They didn’t speak and Max could see Charles’ thoughts wilding again; contemplating his options, he lightly shook the Monègasque’s shoulder.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Charles let out a sigh, rubbing at his eyes with his fists and _wow,_ _he really does look like a kitten_. He didn’t say anything, just continued staring at the spread of yachts in front of himself, fiddling with the fingers of his hands.

Max was about to say _never mind_, but Charles made a move as if he was about to reply; he looked like he was struggling to find correct words to voice his thoughts. The Dutch remained silent, encouraging the Monègasque with his eyes.

“I don’t want to disappoint,” he finally let out, eyes falling down on the hands in his lap. Max’s chest swelled, knowing how the other felt. He felt like that, too, during his rookie season and then later on, after getting put into the better team.

Even now, he felt as if all he did wasn’t good enough, that he could be better and that everybody was disappointed in him; sometimes, he got flashbacks to his karting days and how his father got mad at Max whenever he made a mistake.

He made mistakes far too often, for his liking. _They don’t call me Crashtappen for nothing._

As a way of comfort, he placed his hand on Charles’ knee, squeezing it tightly. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll do great.” Charles let out a sigh, looking at Max gratefully. “Just don’t do better than me, okay? I’ve still got a reputation to hold.”

The Monègasque chuckled at that, “I don’t want the Orange Army coming for me.”

“No matter what you do, the Orange Army will come for you.” Max shrugged, “It’s how it is.”

“It must be nice, getting so much support.” Charles’ words held an undertone of sadness, one he didn’t try to hide much.

“It doesn’t mean much when you don’t get support from those you want it from,” came a mumbled reply, one Charles didn’t understand because of how quiet and incoherent it was.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Max shook his head, shooting a smile he hoped looked real at the other. “You’ll do great, Charles. Don’t worry.”

With that, he stood up and patted the top of his future rival’s head, bidding goodbyes and leaving.

The next time they found themselves talking to each other one-on-one, the season had already well started; of course, they continued greeting each other and Max continued unintentionally stalking Charles, though the now-Ferrari driver seemed a lot busier than before.

They were placed together for the Monaco Press Conference, which sparked something at the pits of Max’s stomach. Coincidentally, they were sat next to one another and that got the Dutchman excited, as he wanted to talk to Charles ever since their little run-in at the pier which was months ago.

The Dutchman found himself feeling giddy as he waited for Charles to join them at the table, his palms sweaty and stomach curling uncomfortably. The Monègasque finally arrived, taking his designated seat next to Max and greeting him.

The two of them found themselves talking quietly during the conference while others answered the questions; Max couldn’t deny the feeling of happiness he got from the small, pointless talks he had at the time.

Friday and Saturday had gone by and it was time for the race. Max was feeling pretty good about it, unlike Charles whose qualifying ended horribly. As much as Max felt good about starting third, he felt pity for Charles.

He tried to find the Monègasque before the race, to wish him good luck, but his mission wasn’t successful.

Max heard about how Charles’ lack of luck after the end of the race. Waiting for the celebrations to end and to finally be able to get back to the hotel, the Red Bull driver thought about what to say to try and make the Ferrari driver feel better.

He found himself standing in front of Charles’ flat building, contemplating whether it was a good idea. _Fuck it, I’m not known for those anyway,_ he thought and pressed the buzzer, biting his lip. He knew that Charles would be able to see who was at the door, with the building being new and modern.

There was a moment of silence before the door buzzed open and Max walked in, greeting the security guy at the front desk before entering the elevator. He pressed the button to the floor of Charles’ apartment, slowly rising up.

The Monègasque was waiting for him, standing in front of the door with his arms crossed across his chest. He was frowning, gaze deep and calculated as he stared at the Dutchman, who started feeling very small under the glare.

“Did you come here to boast? If so, then just leave now,” Charles spoke, making Max freeze.

“What, no,” he defended himself, voice full of force and a glare shot in the direction of the green-eyed man as a means of habit. Seeing Charles step back, Max softened his expression. “I just wanted to see if you’re alright.”

The Ferrari driver looked taken aback, not knowing how to reply. Finally, he opened the door and motioned for Max to get in, closing the door behind them. They walked into the living room, Max complimenting Charles’ flat.

“Thanks,” he replied quietly. “Not just for that, but for coming to see me.”

Max shrugged, “Well, I know how it is to end the race early because of something out of your control.”

Charles remained silent for a moment, before speaking up again, “Do you want something to eat? Drink?” He only got negative headshakes in reply. “Well, sit down. I’m gonna get something to drink.”

Max began to protest, but Charles waved him off and left, only to return moments later with a bottle of tequila and two glasses. “I don’t know about you, but I just want to forget today ever happened,” he said, pouring liquid into the glasses and shooting his down immediately.

Max winced at the sight, cursing himself for coming as that meant he’d end up being the babysitter to the Monègasque. _Or, you can just join him and hope you don’t end up doing something you’ll regret,_ the nagging voice at the back of his head spoke.

Charles was already pouring his third by the time Max drank his first. He took the bottle from the Monègasque, looking at him worriedly, “Take it easy, man.”

“Shut up,” the other replied, snatching the bottle back. Max could already see the alcohol taking its toll on the younger of the two, the bad mental state, exhaustion and most likely lack of food making him lose all of his tolerance.

Deciding that he couldn’t deal with a drunk Charles sober, Max gulped down another shot; he was a lightweight and could already feel himself getting buzzed.

Charles mumbled something incoherent, standing up and turning on the set of speakers in the room. Some sort of French music played soon after, but Max didn’t mind; he knew that drunkish Charles didn’t either.

The Monègasque returned, sitting closer to Max than before; the closeness got Max reaching for another shot, the other following his movements. One became two and Max was feeling drunk, his lightweightness catching up to him.

“Thanks for checking up on me, Maxy.” From the sound of Charles’ voice, he wasn’t any better after pouring God-knows how many shots of tequila down his throat.

Max felt Charles snuggling up to him and looked down at the puppy eyes, resisting the urge to capture Charles’ lips in a kiss. His skin felt hot where the brunet touched him, making Max close his eyes and let out a sigh.

He felt himself getting pushed down on his back and a body straddling his waist; if he were sober, he would’ve stopped, would’ve talked to Charles before doing anything, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t dead-on-his-feet drunk, but he was drunk enough to put his hands under the back of Charles’ shirt and rub the skin there with his fingertips.

The Monègasque let out a content sigh and the sound made Max want to do so much more. Charles moved his torso down, until he was face-to-face with the Dutchman and then his lips were at Max’s ear.

“Thank you,” he mumbled out, hot air making hairs on Max’s arms and legs raise. He replied with continuing his ministrations down Charles’ back, lower than before.

_You’re going to regret this in the morning,_ the nagging voice at the back of his head spoke up again.

_Shut up._

Charles made the first move, pressing his lips against Max’s in a messy, drunken kiss; Max could feel the tequila on his tongue and groaned, putting his hands on Charles’ ass and holding them there. It was a needy, hungry kiss that had both of them gasping for air after they pulled away.

The Monègasque pressed his forehead against Max’s before kissing him again, this time slower but equally as hungry and wanting. Charles grinded against Max’s crotch, making the Dutchman moan loudly.

Charles chuckled against his lips, “You like that?”

“Very much,” Max gasped out.

Their night was a mess of drunken mutterings, limbs twisting with limbs and satisfaction equal to finishing first in a race; Max relished the sounds Charles made, how he begged and pleaded in French, accent thicker than usual.

By the time morning came, Max was gone, not ready to face the aftermath of the storm that was bound to come down on them.

They didn’t talk until Austria; Charles seemed to be avoiding Max like a plague, making the Dutchman frustrated with both himself and the Monègasque. It was true that Max was the one who left that morning, but he thought they’d be able to talk it out when sober.

_I guess not._

Once again, the two of them were sat next to each other for the press conference, but this time there wasn’t any excitement, just dread. Max just hoped no one else noticed the tension that was bound to surround the two of them.

Just as he had thought, they didn’t speak to one another; Max tried to push away the feeling of hurt biting at his chest, focusing on replying to the reporters as truthfully as he could. After the press conference ended, Charles was out at lightning speed, leaving Max to stare at his retrieving figure.

Alex shot him a funny look, but Max just shook his head and left for the Red Bull hospitality.

At the end of the weekend, Max was feeling on top of the world. He won, battling out with Charles – of all people, _thank you universe_ – and coming out the victor; the trophy felt good in his hands and the look of hidden anger on Charles’ face felt even better.

Yeah, maybe Max was feeling a little spiteful that Charles had been ignoring him.

After the long, awkward and dreadful post-race press conference and after all celebrations had gone, Max found himself scrolling through Instagram in his hotel room. There was a loud knock on the door and Max had a feeling he knew who it was.

_Always right,_ he thought when his blue eyes met the green ones he slowly came to adore during the past year; they were angry and glaring at him in a way that felt deeper than just losing the race.

“Do you want to come in?” Max questioned when Charles didn’t say anything for a while, just stared at the Dutchman’s face. The Monègasque pushed past him inside and Max rolled his eyes, closing the door.

They were silent for a while, just staring at each other; Max indifferent and Charles angry, as if he didn’t know where to start.

“What the fuck was that?” the Monègasque finally asked, voice full of venom.

“Racing,” Max replied easily, willing to see Charles riled up even more.

He succeeded, as the Monègasque let out a noise of frustration and anger. He came onto Max, pushing him against the door but not enough that it would hurt the Dutchman; they were both breathing heavily.

“Don’t call that racing,” Charles seethed. “You just had to go and show everyone how great the _Max Verstappen _is! It was my first real chance for a win, and you had to go and ruin it.”

That riled Max up, “Oh, shut up. Why can’t you just admit that I was better? I deserved to win and we both know it. Don’t start this shit and instead learn how to lose because, guess what, life often goes how you don’t want it to.”

_“Va te faire foutre.”_

Charles was in Max’s face, so close that the Dutch could feel Charles’ breath on his face as he spoke the words; he didn’t know how to reply to Max, what to say to make the truth sting a lot less. In the end, he settled for tightening his hold on the other, pressing him against the wooden surface with all his might.

Realistically, Max could’ve easily pushed him away, but he let Charles have his moment; Max was aware that the Monègasque wasn’t thinking straight and that he needed to let his frustration out before they’d be able to talk like adults.

_Since when am I the adult of the situation,_ Max pondered as Charles’ face got dangerously close to his, so close that their lips were almost touching again. _That’s right, I’m not._

He pressed his lips against Charles’ lightly, closing his eyes and trying not to think about how nice the Monègasque smelt. Charles responded to the kiss, taking control and putting all of thoughts into the action; it was an angry, heated kiss full of clashing tongues and teeth and Charles pulled Max deeper into the room, not breaking their moment.

Max felt the mattress hitting his knees and pulled away, opening his eyes to find Charles looking at him, an unreadable expression on his face. The Dutchman rolled his eyes, plopping down on the bed and pulling the Monègasque with him.

The Ferrari driver kissed him, this time a lot slower, as if his anger had just vanished and he was left exhausted. Max wrapped his arms around Charles’ neck, lightly tugging at his soft hair every-so-often.

Charles rolled off Max, laying next to him so that they were side-by-side, their noses touching. “I’m sorry,” he spoke quietly.

Max sighed. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too.” His voice was equally quiet, as if the two of them were afraid of breaking the serenity that came to engulf them.

“I’m sorry for ignoring you.”

Max kissed him, not wanting to open that topic; Charles was here now, by Max’s side with his soft lips touching Max’s and that was all Max was asking for. Hearing the Monègasque let out a content sigh made Max smile and he realized he never wanted to let go of this moment.

They didn’t properly talk about it until Germany. Another win for Max, another DNF for Charles and another series of pent-up emotions that broke out in Max’s hotel room. Charles wasn’t angry at Max, this time, only at himself for making a mistake and crashing.

Two of them were laying on the bed, Charles enjoying the warmth Max elicited; the Dutchman was stroking his back and neck, pressing kisses to Charles’ forehead and smiling at him.

When the Monègasque first came to the room, he was frustrated and Max let him deal with his frustrations whichever way he wanted to; it ended with Max kissing Charles sweetly, causing the green-eyed boy to start crying and Max circling his arms around him, pressing his head to his naked chest.

Just as he thought Charles had fallen asleep, the Monègasque moved to press his lips against Max’s. They pressed their foreheads together, breaths mingling.

“Max,” Charles started, pulling away from the Dutchman. Max hummed in response, leaning against the headpost so that he can look at the Monègasque properly. “What are we doing?”

“What do you mean?” Max replied, scanning Charles’ face for any sign of his thoughts.

“What are we doing?” the Monègasque repeated, more frustratedly this time. Max sighed, taking Charles’ hands in his, rubbing comforting circles on his palms.

“What do you want?”

“I want you.” Max kissed him, then. He kissed Charles’ nose, and cheeks, and forehead; he kissed a path all across the Monègasque’s face, until locking with his lips and hugging the younger man closer.

“That’s great, because I want you, too,” he murmured against Charles’ ear, earning a breathy moan from the Monègasque. “You know, I’ve liked you for a while now.”

“Really?” Charles breathed out, earning a chuckle in response. “I like you.”

“I like you, too.”

Spa wasn’t the best weekend for Max. It was all disappointing, really, especially the race which, for him, ended at the first turn. Then there was the tragedy with Anthoine, which left Charles seeking comfort from his boyfriend.

_God, that feels so great to say._

They didn’t tell anyone about their newly found relationship; they didn’t know how people would react, but they had a feeling it wouldn’t end that well, at least in the media. Max could already see the headlines, not one stating anything good.

When Max saw Charles crossing the finish line from his driver’s room, he went out to search for his boyfriend; the Monègasque was bound to be busy for a while, with post-race interviews and the podium and everything, but Max hoped to at least get a minute.

He knew that the victory felt bittersweet to Charles, could see it from how he saluted the sky after getting out of his car. Max hoped that the Monègasque would at least be somewhat able to enjoy it, as first wins were always the best.

Max waited for Charles to pass by one of the secluded hallways, pulling his arm when the red-clad driver finally arrived. Charles was about to scold whoever grabbed him but then saw the pair of familiar blue eyes.

“Congratulations,” Max said, looking around to see if there was anyone before kissing Charles. The Monègasque responded immediately, wrapping his arms around Max’s waist.

_“Merci,”_ replied Charles, breaking away from the kiss. He left his arms hang from Max’s waist as he took in his boyfriend’s proud smile. “I don’t have much time.”

“I know. I just wanted to congratulate you.”

They stayed like that, gazing at each other’s eyes until a familiar, loud whistle broke them apart; Charles could feel himself blushing, not wanting to turn around to look at the older drivers. Max shook his head, shooting a _go away_ in Daniel’s direction only to earn laughter in response.

“Come on, let’s leave the kids alone,” the Aussie said loudly, pulling a baffled-looking Sebastian Vettel along.

**Author's Note:**

> [find me on tumblr](https://bakuturnnine.tumblr.com/)


End file.
